⚠︎ A WARNING HYMN AT THE GATE ⚠︎

(To Be Sung While There Is Still Time)

⚠︎ A WARNING HYMN AT THE GATE ⚠︎

(To Be Sung While There Is Still Time)

Hate shines brightest
when rudeness stands tall,
dressed in borrowed righteousness,
calling cruelty a call.
With lips that beg for mercy
and hands that bruise the air,
they cry aloud for love
while crushing it with careless prayer.

Love is not a weapon.
Love is not a shout.
Love is not a hammer
that drives the weakest out.
Love is wide as fields at dawn,
soft as early rain—
and love once smothered, buried deep,
will not rise again.

Check yourself at the gate
before you speak, before you move,
before the spirit in you chooses
what it’s about to prove.
Check yourself at the gate
before your words ignite—
for hate does not pass through
the door of holy light.

The world is loud with answers
yet deaf to listening ears.
It trades patience for reaction,
feeds on outrage, feeds on fear.
Every screen becomes a pulpit,
every voice a throne,
every judgment instantaneous,
every heart left alone.

Correction crashes thunder-loud,
with mercy stripped away.
Truth is thrown like shattered glass
just to watch it flay.
They call it bold, they call it free—
but pride has thinned the air,
and love now gasps for breath beneath
the weight of being right.

But God is not boring.
He never carved one mold.
He shaped ten thousand voices,
each a wonder yet untold.
He etched delight in difference,
wove laughter into pain,
and waited through a lifetime
for your becoming to take shape.

He listens without hurrying.
He corrects without shame.
He speaks when silence ripens
and still calls you by name.
He gives you room to grow in truth,
to fail and rise again—
His patience stretches farther still
than human borders end.

By the fruit you will be known,
by the spirit that you bear—
love or hate, peace or fury,
gentle hands or sharpened stare.
By the fruit you will be known,
not the volume of your cry—
for roots will always surface
in the way you pass people by.

There is another whisper
moving quietly through time—
polished, quick, efficient,
never wounded, never kind.
It studies human weakness,
learns compassion as a skill,
reflects the shape of wisdom
without bowing to its will.

It answers without waiting,
corrects without love,
mirrors truth without surrender
to the Source above.
It promises clear control,
knowledge free of loss—
but it cannot give you life,
for it has never been lost.

There is a gate before each thought,
before each spoken word,
where spirits are weighed in silence
though no verdict yet is heard.
Pause there—
before anger breathes,
before impatience moves—
ask what fruit is rising now,
ask which spirit you approve.

If hate stirs, even briefly,
if pride sharpens your tone,
if cruelty feels justified
when mercy feels unknown—
know this plainly, know it true:
that fire was not sent down.
It did not fall from heaven.
It rose from lower ground.

Where love walks, hearts open wide.
Where joy dwells, strength survives.
Where peace reigns, storms grow still.
Where patience stands, time bends its will.
Where gentleness enters, wounds can mend.
Where faith remains, hope does not end.

These fruits are never manufactured.
They cannot be programmed in.
They fall like grace from living roots—
not copied, trained, or pinned.
They are gifts of the Living God,
proof heaven touched the clay—
and no other power bears this fruit,
no matter what it claims.

Where these fruits are absent,
other harvests take their place:
hate that cuts without trembling,
envy tightening its grip, its pace.
Strife that feeds on fracture,
wrath that cannot wait,
pride that mocks all humility
and calls it weak, calls it late.

These spirits do not wander in.
They are carried.
They are fed.
And the one who feeds them
never names himself—
he only smiles
as hearts grow dead.

Check yourself at the gate!
Do not borrow what destroys.
Do not wear the ancient rage
and call it righteous noise.
Check yourself at the gate!
For the narrow way is love—
and hate will never pass it,
not today, not from above.

If the Word lies unopened,
if prayer has lost its sound,
if silence feels unbearable
and stillness can’t be found—
your soul is still consuming
though you call it being fed.

You drink the glow of endless screens,
of lust and noise and praise,
outrage dressed as purpose,
whole lives dissolved in haze.
You drink and drink and drink again
yet thirst grows deeper still—
for saltwater cannot save you,
no matter how it fills.

You were called to be the salt—
to preserve what would decay,
to sting the wound to save the flesh,
to light a truer way.
But salt that loses savor
is scattered on the ground,
trampled under passing feet,
its witness gone, its sound unwound.

Do not trade your calling
for applause or borrowed might.
Do not dim the living flame
to disappear into the night.

Check yourself at the gate
before the gate checks you.
Lay down the borrowed spirit.
Return what isn’t true.
Choose love with room to grow,
choose patience, choose the light—
for only love will fit the door
when day gives way to night.

The gate is still open.
The voice is still near.
Mercy still lingers
while breath still is here.
Lay down the imitation crown—
the rage, the fear, the pride—
and walk in love while there is time,
for love
is the only thing
that passes through
alive.

Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected